


like a phoenix from the ashes

by glowingbluesketches



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Character Study, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-03 23:46:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17293607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowingbluesketches/pseuds/glowingbluesketches
Summary: Vlad had once said that her name meant 'she will rise again'.Anya didn't know if it did in Russian, but she had said she would give it a go. Anastasia thought it had meant 'breaker of chains'.And that's what they both did.A small character study, mixing both the movie and the musical a little bit.





	like a phoenix from the ashes

Standing in her gown of red, the kokoshnik once worn by Empress Alexandra many years ago glistening on her head, Anya didn't feel much like a Grand Duchess.

Maybe it was because in the last ten years, walking and working from Perm to Paris, she hadn't worn such extravagant clothing. Or maybe it was because Anastasia's, like her sisters, had been a light peach with flowing sleeves, their Orders of St. Catherine glistening on an equally light pink sash trimmed with silver, the ensemble covered lightly in diamonds. On their heads, kokoshniks that weren't as glistening or blinding as their mothers or aunts, or any of the older female members of the Imperial Court, regardless of their status.

Anastasia Nikolaevna was not  _grand_  enough for elegant red gowns and expensive jewels worn by dead monarchs.

Anya equally so.

And yet...

It felt right. She was Anastasia, youngest daughter and only surviving child of Nicholas II.

Yet why did it feel so  _wrong_?

The girl blinking back at her through the mirror was not Anya, nor was she Anastasia. Anya was feisty and sarcastic and snappy, who lost her temper and had no control over her emotions. Anastasia was mischievous and funny and care-free, she stuck her tongue out and walked away from approaching arguments, she did not blow her top off at anything anyone said that was slightly judgmental. Olga was the hot headed one, the one to explode at any given moment, she did no such thing.

The girl in the mirror was anything but them; she was regal, proud, confused.

She was neither orphan Anya nor royal Anastasia.

She was a new person entirely, and she looked helpless.

This felt wrong, all of this felt  _wrong_.

But Grandmama...

She was the one constant in both of their lives; the loving grandmother to one and home to another.

But it did nothing to settle the weight inside her heart; the weight she hated to carry for the last ten years, the first thing she felt when she woke up in that hospital in Perm, the weight that gave away just a little the minute she remembered the warm, safe song from when she was a young girl. From a music box Anastasia treasured.

Then it came slamming back down when she yelled at Gleb to shoot her, to shoot her and Anastasia, to bring an end to Nicholas II's direct bloodline, a bloodline full of Kings and Queens and people Anya did not belong with.

Now, with no bullet lodged in her chest or head or anywhere that should have ended the Romanov line ten years ago, she stared into a mirror to stare at the elegantly dressed woman, who was both Anya and Anastasia, but who was also neither.

And with that, staring into cornflower blue eyes the same colour as their father's, they made their decision.

* * *

She did not know how she had been able to guess he was here, on the Pont Alexandre II, the bridge her father had placed the foundation stone in 1896. Anya dreamed of this place, Anastasia had never experienced it.

But he was here, his trunk gripped tightly in his hand, his eyes questioning why her brown woolly coat was wrapped around herself to hide her dress or why the kokoshnik that he had saw had been in her hair was now gone (now in the cushioned box her Grandmama had taken it out off).

He was the only one who never saw Anya as Anastasia, or Anastasia as Anya.

In the technical sense, he was trying to create Anastasia  _from_  her, but he never saw her as a former pampered Grand Duchess or an amnesiac orphan not worth his time. He seemed to be the only one; Lily and Grandmama saw Anastasia, Vlad and Gleb saw Anya. None of them considered that maybe they were both, or neither.

Dimitri had, though, in his own way.

And they both loved him for it, regardless that he was trying to throw it-them-away.

"The Grand Duchess Anastasia would beg to disagree!"

Anastasia had stormed forward, Anya had grabbed and slammed down his trunk, and both of them took the plunge.

Then she felt it, the weight slowly but surely lessening in her heart, and floating away in a calm breeze she could not hear but imagine.

It felt like binds loosening around her, easily enough for someone to slip out of them. Or handcuffs that kept them locked together finally having a key.

For a moment, she felt a little sad, like she had lost an old friend or a companion, but pulling away and staring up at her Dima cheered her up, especially the love and devotion written across his face.

Anya stepped off his trunk and picked it up, holding it in her front of her as a way of saying 'if you're going, you're taking me with you'.

He sighed, a sigh that told her that he was giving up on arguing with her, and stuck out his arm for her to take. And Anya did so happily, and began to walk with him across the bridge, like she had once wanted to do.

But not before taking one last look at everything she was walking away from.

A look that she was compelled to do.

At first she had been surprised to see a young girl with short strawberry hair standing on the bridge, watching them go.

For a moment she wondered if someone had been watching them, had heard her declaration. But something about the girl was...familiar, in a sense.

The face was rounder, the eyes more innocent, but if she hadn't been convinced before the clothing was a dead give away. The pearly white blouse, the long blue skirt, the gold bracelet that the doctors at the hospital had unfortunately had to saw off, as it had tightly wrapped around her wrist as if she had grown into it (maybe things would have been much easier if they hadn't).

Anastasia, a smile on her face that none of them had ever put on before, began to walk backwards. Away from her, without breaking eye contact. Although the smile was still there, the pace was slow, mournful even, like she was savoring every last inch of what she had become. Anya lifted her hand slightly over her shoulder, giving Dimitri the impression she was just scratching her shoulder, to give her a small wave.

"Bye." she whispered, faintly.

Then, the shout of a young boy.

"Nastya!"

And with a laugh and a joyful spin, hair flowing in a makeshift breeze, she ran towards the man, woman, three girls and the little boy all waiting for her, all crying and calling for her with various nicknames; Nastya, Shivisbk, Nastenka.

Anya smiled, but not in remembrance or sadness for her family, but in happiness.

Because at the end of the day, they were both Anastasia and Anya, and they weren't.

Remembering her past, the years of Palaces and parties and siblings and loving parents, Anya's dreams whenever they weren't nightmares of that awful July night, had made her feel empty. Dreams of her long lost memories did not feel like they were Anastasia's. Anya, or who she assumed to be Anya considering she was more like a set of floating eyes, had watched as Anastasia pranked and laughed through life, from a baby to a six year old to eleven to fifteen and then finally, seventeen. She stopped after that.

The memories in dreams she could not decipher back then were now perfectly clear; Anastasia Nikolaevna had died a long time ago, the lost subconscious remnants of her in a broken mind struggling to be let free. Because even though Anya was a child of Nicholas and Alexandra, she was not Anastasia. She hadn't been for a very long time.

Vlad had once said that her name meant 'she will rise again'.

Anya didn't know if it did in Russian, but she had said she would give it a go. Anastasia thought it had meant 'breaker of chains'.

And that's what they both did.


End file.
